Sam Winchester Lives for a Day
by CullenJunkie
Summary: WINCEST; Sam is spiraling the drain after too much death and destruction Season 2 Spoiler Alert , Dean is desparate to make it better. Angsty first time goodness with a chewy porn center.
1. Dean Knows

Dean knows.

Sam weeps. It's nothing new. Every night, after they turn from each other into their separate beds, when Sam thinks Dean has fallen asleep, he curls into himself like parchment thrown into a fire and sobs, his body wracked with grief.

Sam lets the memories take him; Jessica, the hitch and sigh of her breath when she drifted into deepened state of sleep, the notes she left for him, a bubbled _I-Love-You_ scrawled in red ink hiding in his back pack or on a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies.

The terror and confusion that fought for dominance in her face and the graceful curve of her mouth as her body clung to the ceiling, belly slit, trying to comprehend the impossibility of her own death in the seconds before she erupted into flame. Yes, that moment scrambles up the sheer rock face of Sam's memories, digging its filthy claws into his awareness, searching for a foothold in the reality of the waking world.

Sam accepts that he killed Jessica. His presence in her life was a cruel joke. Sam said yes to Jessica believing that all he needed to forget the aching need he felt for his brother was the rolling softness of a woman's body, so alien and unlike the sharp angle of Dean's square jaw or the velvet covered steel of his chest. Sam ran away, like a coward, like a deserter because he could no longer control his unruly fingers and knew that one day he would reach toward Dean to caress him in a way that would destroy his brother.

He left Dean because of the sickness that infests each waking moment. He loves Dean, is in love with Dean; the air is thicker, harder to breathe when Dean is not by his side. He fought with his father because John would have been disgusted by his depravity. Sam alienated Dean to spare him the pain of knowing that his baby brother yearned for his companionship, his love, and his body. Sam chose to leave for Stanford when he realized that Dean, in his dogged commitment to Sam, would relent, regardless of his own discomfort and revulsion.

Sam believes the evidence of his cowardice goes no further than the mute confidence of his pillow; he waits for Dean's breathing to slow, and then Sam weeps.

But Dean does not sleep.

Dean listens.

Dean's skin, his fingers, his breath, the whole of his body wills him to move to his brother's bed, to turn Sam in his arms and stroke the fine baby-soft curls at the nape of Sam's neck. Dean imagines brushing his lips against Sam's brow, whispering into the hollow of Sam's hurt that he would bear this burden for his brother, if only Sam considered him worthy.

*******

Bleak midwinter light fights through the greasy window of the truck stop diner. Dean watches Sam pick at his breakfast, his younger brother's eyes swollen and red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and wonders how to fix this without breaking them apart.

It was bad after Jessica, worse after Dad and then Madison's death came heavy on the heels of Meg's possession and Dean is now at a loss. Dean protects Sam, but he can no longer protect his baby brother from the bumps in the night that resound too close to their beds and the ceaseless pawing of the slavering wolf at the door and his rolling yellow eyes.

Dean can barely contain his own desire. He learned to cover his want for Sam when he was 21 and Sammy 16. He became an expert at lying when he first looked at Sam's lanky, muscular body and felt a stir in his gut that had nothing to do with brotherly affection or pride in the young man that Sam had grown into under his watch. Nope, he's a sick bastard, but he made peace with that defect years ago, fucking his way across the country in an effort to silence the overwhelming craving he felt to taste the salt of Sam's skin; to suck, mark, and possess Sam in all the ways that he has never imagined doing with another living soul.

His love for Sammy is merely another piece of Dean that is wanting; another reason why he has failed his family; another reason why Sam left.

_'Ugh.' _Dean thinks. _'What whiny pussy. I need pull my head out of my ass.'_

"Son of a bitch"

"What?" Sam looks up from the river of ketchup he is creating in his untouched scrambled eggs.

"We need time off."

"Dean, I'm fine." Sam's gaze returns to his cold eggs and leathery bacon.

"No Sam, you're not fine." Dean lowers his voice. "I don't feel fine, I feel ridden hard and hung up wet and you," Dean dips his head to catch Sam's eyes "You're sure as shit not fine. When was the last time you slept through the night?"

Sam's cheeks redden. Shame prickles in his chest; not only has Dean lost his youth caring for Sam, carried the burden of their father's demands, their father's death, now he is forced to bare witness to Sam's disintegration and possible transformation into one of the monsters they have spent their life fighting against. If he had any courage at all he would end this now, swallow the muzzle of his 9mm and set his brother free. But he is not courageous, he attempted to leave once, he never will again, he doubts he would allow even death to separate him from Dean. Sam would rather wallow in his own private misery for the remainder of his pathetic life than lose even one moment with his brother.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean reaches across the table and lays a calloused hand over Sam's own. Sam stares down his hash browns with the intensity of a shell-shocked soldier. "Come on, man? You can't keep this up." Sam's skin crackles when Dean touches his hand and he curses the threads of fate that tied Dean to him with the blood of kinship.

"Dude, what do you want me to say?" Sam's anger flares; it is the only _safe_ emotion he feels around Dean these days.

"Say you'll hang out with me today. I'm going to take a piss and settle the check. Then you and I are going to try to forget about all this bull shit for a little while."

"Okay." Sam can't help but smile when Dean's face lights up, even though he suspects that a "day off" means he will end up watching a parade of barmaids hanging all over Dean while he flirts and hustles pool.

Dean shoves his own desires aside, along with the want, the ache, the terrible hunger that consumes him each waking moment; today is about Sammy, not about his fucked up fantasies. A normal day, that's what Sammy needs; no demons, no threats of going all Dark Side, no hustling or pool halls, just the two of them doing what normal folks do when they have a day off. Dean's not sure exactly what that entails, but if Sammy needs an escape, he's going to give it to him. He feels the prickling of an idea, the only other thing Sam used to beg for besides a trip to the library when they were kids and John was off hunting or on walk-about with his buddies Jose, Johnny, or Jim.

Dean pays the bill and asks where the nearest shopping center or mall is located. The cashier, a sixty-plus year old woman with hair the color of cherry-cola, cigarette stained fingers, and a mug like Bela Lugosi gives him directions. Dean has to suppress a shiver when she flashes him a broad, semi-toothless smile and mentions that her shift ends at 3:30.

Dean ambles out to the Impala. Sam's breath hitches in his chest as his brother slides behind the wheel and the scent of worn leather and Dean's aftershave, a warming concoction of cloves and sandalwood, fill the car.

"You ready Sammy?" Dean starts the car, luxuriating in the bass roar of the Impala's engine.

"Dean, I don't think there are any bars open around here at 10 AM."

A flicker of hurt ghosts across Dean's face, a person who didn't know Dean, who didn't study every nuance of his facial expressions, would have missed it, but Sam did not and experiences a rush of guilt at his assumption.

"We're not going to a bar."

"Oh?"

"Nope."

"Then where are we going?" Sam's curiosity peaks and the swaddling of melancholy loosens for a brief moment.

"It's a surprise, Dude, now shut your cake hole and relax." Dean switches on the tape deck and James Hetfield's voice growls into the empty space between the two men each lost in the comfort of the other's presence, each straining toward the other as a sun-starved sapling strains toward the light. The secrets they each cleave to forming an invisible net that stretches taught across their lips and captures the words that they long to say aloud.


	2. Dawning

Dean slides the Impala into a space in front of the mall and watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. The younger man manages to slump into a dejected posture despite the crowded space in the front of the car, hunching his shoulders forward and jamming his knees into the glove compartment. Sam Winchester mastered the art of pouting as a child and Dean bites the inside of his cheek to suppress his laughter when Sam tucks in his chin, heaves a exasperated sigh and crosses his arms like a petulant four-year-old.

"Seriously Sammy, you can give it up, that pouty shtick didn't work on me when you were ten; it's not going to work now."

"Then tell me what we're doing."

"Guess."

"Shopping?"

"Nope."

Sam swings his head to the right and spies a salon and day spa. "Sea-weed wrap and massage?"

"Right, _Samantha_, and then we can braid each other's hair." In spite of his derision, Dean thinks he may try to schedule them both for a massage later that afternoon. He's never had a real massage, even though he has an abiding love of magic fingers. Sure, plenty of _professional_ women have rubbed his shoulders, but they usually wore candy-colored g-strings, spoke in breathy vodka-tinged whispers, and went by names like "Infinity" or "Cheyenne".

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam twists in his seat and leans over Dean to look out the driver's side window. The waves of Sam's chestnut hair are less than an inch from Dean's face. Dean stills, the smell of Sam so close is intoxicating; he breathes deep, grateful for the quiet moment but terrified to move, his lungs filled with his Sammy; sunlight, hotel soap, and something earthy and sweet, like pipe tobacco mingled with the scent of fallen leaves.

Dean avoids physical closeness with Sam when their lives are not at stake, opting, in most instances, to maintain a no-man's land of space no closer than the length of the leather bench that stretches between the driver's and passenger's seat of the Impala. Dean yearns to take that final journey, traverse those last few inches but that crossing seems as impossible as embarking on a pilgrimage to the moon in order to stare into the face of God.

While Sam searches the store fronts, Dean considers the graceful planes of Sam's profile and the delicious heat that Sam's skin throws off, like a bon fire on a chilly October evening, his own face flushing with desire while the bitter-cold of reality bites at his back. Dean's palms itch to stroke the bare skin of Sam's neck, roll the pads of his fingers across the grooves of muscle in Sam's chest, suck and bite the fine strip of hair that extends from his navel to the dark thatch between his well-toned thighs. Dean's mouth waters and he tries to think of carburetors and rotten corpses; anything to stop the treacherous teasing and narrowing of the gap between safe and sane and dumb and dangerous that his brother's proximity creates.

The sign advertising the movie theatre inside the mall catches Sam's attention and he sits bolt upright, child-like excitement breaching the wall of his frustration. A trip to the movies was the closest thing to a family vacation that Sam can remember. He learned young to associate the warm aroma of buttered popcorn and the spongy tang of Gumi bears with the relief that came at the end of a job; his father home safe and alive, his older brother free from his too-adult responsibilities for an evening. Sam's face blossoms into a warm smile at the memory of Dean tossing kernels of popcorn at their father and John setting aside the rigidity of his marine-style, survival parenting, his dispossession, and his self-imposed exile to clown and play with his sons.

Later, those evenings came further and further apart as the hunt consumed John's life and their father drew farther away from his children. The inconsistency of John's paychecks meant purse strings strained against the family's constant travel and the needs of two growing young men. Sam grieved the infrequency and eventual loss of those nights and recognized how Dean agonized over his inability to fill that need for his brother with the scant monetary and emotional resources in his possession. Sam loved Dean all the more for the sacrifices he knows now his brother must have made in order to take Sam on a trip to the movies or buy him a meal at Howard Johnson's as opposed to Burger King. Sam's eyes prick with tears as he realizes why Dean only drank coffee while he wolfed down burgers, fries, and a milk shake.

When he was seventeen Sam saw Dean as contradiction heaped on contradiction. Dean was a courageous hunter and a scared child; a drill sergeant and a mother-hen. He was the pain-in-the-ass who forced him to train after he finished his homework but acted as human shield taking abuse from both John and Sam when the father-son dynamic between he and his father turned toxic. Sam saw an object of lust, sex and sin, whose chiseled body riled Sam's adolescent hormones. He also saw a brother who rubbed his back after a nightmare and held a cool cloth to his forehead when he had the flu. Sam turns to Dean, unsure of the steadiness of his voice, and meets his brother's eyes.

Sam sees the smattering of freckles dusting the bridge of his nose and the delicate lines at the corner of his eyes that crinkle when he laughs. Sam witnesses the man that Dean is, not the roles in which Dean has been cast, either by himself, fate or their shattered family. Sam feels as if he is staring into that first dawn, when the world was new and the sun broke the border of the horizon, flooding the earth with light and warmth.

They consider each other, hearts beating in time to the ticking of the cooling engine; unasked questions soak the silent space between them, both men drinking in the presence of the other. Each moment crashes into the next and Dean can't find words, breath, or a valid, rational reason why he shouldn't be sucking Sam's slender fingers or laying a gentle trail of feather-soft kisses across Sammy's eyelids.

Then, the echo of his father's voice rises over the rush of his own pulse, worn gravel and whiskey choked with sadness begging Dean to _"Save him. You listen to me, whatever it takes, Dean. You save him because you are the only one who can, and if you fail…" _

Captured in the swirl of this unending moment, before he looks away or cracks a joke, Dean allows himself to hope, to wonder, if saving his brother might damn them both. And, as he leans toward Sam, reaching out into the void, crossing the space that separates them, Dean discovers the courage not to care.


	3. Communion

Dean's expression swirls, light and shadow play across the contours of his face like colors in the sky at dawn; insecurity, craving, loneliness, and release swell and ebb, battling for dominance in Dean's eyes and the twist of his full, cupid bow of a mouth. Transfixed by the surging changes, Sam does not realize that Dean has shifted toward him until Dean's lips are a fraction of an inch from his own.

"Dean." Sam's heart thunders against his rib cage.

"Shhh, Sammy."

Sam feels the gentle puff of Dean's breath ghost across his mouth and he falls through the remaining distance; the final journey a culmination of their remarkable and horrible past, the insecurity and ragged fringe of the present, and the unknown boundless future. The connection stuns them both and they freeze, lips pressed together, afraid to move, frightened to press forward but not wanting to pull away and break the connection they have both spent a life time racing toward.

Sam stirs first, lips parting, their tongues touch, brief, hesitant. The taste of the other, the wet heat, the reality of Dean's mouth on his own spurs him forward. Sam's hand slides up Dean's arm and he savors the crinkle of chilled, stiff leather and the scratch of stubble on Dean's cheek.

The pressure of Sam's lips, his hand on Dean's face, the smell of his breath, Sam's body so close, all of it, everything Dean has ever wanted; so close, so close. Dean fists curl into the soft cotton of Sam's sweatshirt and he pulls him deep into an embrace as the fervor and hunger in the kiss grows, expanding like a star, a searing force overwhelming both men. They break apart, foreheads touching, eyes shut, each listening to the other's breath.

"So I take it we're not going to the movies." Sam whispers, he can't seem to get enough air into his lungs.

Dean's fingers toy with the chestnut curls at the nape of Sam's neck. "Sammy, I think maybe you and I should talk."

"Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

And with that both men begin to laugh, gasping for air between howls, as Dean turns the key in the ignition and coaches the Impala to life.

****

"Well?" Sam and Dean sit on the hotel bed, cross legged, facing each other, knees touching. Dean turns Sam's hand over in his tracing the lines of his palm. Two hours ago they left the parking lot of the mall and Dean drove straight back to the motel, instructed Sam to wait in the car and checked them out of the no-tell, motel where they had camped out looking for their next job. He wasn't going to engage in the most serious, pivotal conversation of his life in a motel with a broken heater and a fly fishing motif. Dean wanted their lives to begin today; new and crisp like the air after a thunderstorm has washed the heaviness and humidity from the world and left nothing but a light cool breeze drifting across a speckles canvas of robin's egg blue.

He drove until he found a real hotel, one with plush towels, clean sheets and honest-to-goodness room service. They checked in and Dean has not relinquished physical contact with Sam since they sat down on the stiff, flowered comforter. He is fearful that Sammy will disappear, evaporate, or worse yet, realize that this is totally fucking insane and leave him again.

"Well." Sam sighs. He is awestruck by the transformation in this man who cringes at the thought of "chick flick" moments. Dean taking charge is nothing new, but Dean instigating a conversation about emotion, about something that makes his guts squirm is downright freakish. Not to mention the tender, attentive hands that have guided Sam from one moment to the next since they first kissed.

"Yeah." Dean's other hand strays across Sam's cheek and traces his lips.

"How long?"

Dean's mouth curls up into a crooked smirk and Sam forgets that oxygen is an important part of staying conscious.

"Not that, you perv." Sam punches Dean on the shoulder. "How long have you felt this way?"

"A long time, Sammy. Years. How about you?"

"Since before Stanford." Sam cannot look at Dean, ashamed of the cowardice that drove him from his family, from the man that he has loved the entirety of his life. A thought slithers to the surface, slinking along the outskirts of his mind. It feints toward the center of his consciousness and then retreats. Tears fall, unbidden but Sam doesn't look away, he wants Dean to see this, to see his grief because he doesn't know how to apologize for what he's done.

"Hey?" Dean crooks his index finger and tilts Sam's head up to meet his eyes.

A wretched sob breaks from Sam's lips and Dean's stomach plummets; two hours, at least he has had two hours of joy; two hours before Sam saw him for the fucked up monster that he is and crumbled in the face of his sickness.

"Sammy?" The caution in Dean's voice drags Sam out of his selfish misery.

"Dean, you never left me. I ran from you because I couldn't deal with it, I thought you'd hate me if you ever found out. But you never left, never would have left. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I hurt you; that I wasn't strong enough, brave enough…" Sam's speech disintegrates into a fresh round of choking sobs.

Then Sam feels Dean's mouth crushed against his own, hands cupping the sides of his face. Dean kisses him, pouring forgiveness, redemption, and love into the movement of his full lips and the swipe and caress of his tongue. Dean places his hands on Sam's shoulders and lowers him onto the bed so that he is on his back and Dean's body covers his own.

Sam pushes Dean away gently and makes one final confession. "Dean, I don't know how to, I mean, I've never, you know, with a man."

Dean leans down to Sam and sucks Sam's bottom lip, gently at first and then a little more insistent, ending the assault with a nip that causes an electric tingle of excitement to shoot down Sam's spine to his hardening cock. Dean pulls away and whispers into Sam's ear. "Sammy, do you want this to happen?"

"Yes."

"Do you love me?" Dean's heart stutters; he has never asked this question of another living soul, never made himself vulnerable enough to give a shit about the answer.

"Yes."

"Because I love you, I have since the moment you were born and maybe before that, I don't know. I want this, I'm tired Sammy, I'm tired of waiting, of wanting. I want you, only you, for the rest of our lives, however long they last. We'll figure the rest of it out." A wicked smile tugs at the corners of Dean's mouth and he kisses Sam once more, arching his back and grinding his body against Sam's.

Sam's legs part and Dean lifts up on his hands, licking the tracks of Sam's tears, his hips undulating against steel hardness and heat. Sam groans, his hands groping Dean's firm, muscular ass tighter against his body. The feel of Sam's fingers clawing him creates delicious pressure on his dick and he moans into Sam's mouth. "Fuck, Sammy, you're so goddamn beautiful."

The sound of Dean's pleasure and the ragged passion in his voice sends Sam into a frenzy and he no longer cares that he's never been with a man and that Dean is his brother and convention condemns their union. The rest of the world can go fuck itself for all he cares. Sam sits up, shoving Dean into a kneeling position and ripping off the button down and t-shirt to reveal the bare planes of Dean's well-muscled, tan chest.

"Need to feel you, Dean." Sam tears the layers of his own shirts and then he is pressing his bare skin against his brothers, biting Dean's nipples and running his hands over Dean's bare back. Dean can feel the head of his cock leaking, the aching pressure of his jeans growing uncomfortable the more aroused he becomes. Dean throws Sam back, biting Sam's neck, grazing his earlobe with his teeth.

Dean pushes up on one arm and with his free hand, rolls one of Sam's nipples between his thumb and his forefinger, pinching just enough to make Sam's hips buck into his own. Dean's fingers scratch down the front of Sam's chest and come to rest on the fly of his jeans. Dean pops the button on the fly and before he can blink Sam is wiggling out of his pants and attacking Dean's fly with his own hands. Dean's jeans slide down over his ass and for the first time he feels the sensation of their cocks rubbing against each other. Dean reaches between their bodies and encircles both their erections with his warm, calloused hand and begins to stroke in time with the thrusts of Sam's hips.

Dean feels a bead of sweat trickle down his chest and Sam raises his head and licks grunting and panting, wild with yearning and lost in the earthen tang of sweat and sex.

"Open your eyes." Dean's voice is tight with need and Sam's eyes snap open. "I need to watch you come baby, please Sammy, look at me, stay with me, let it be me, Sammy, let it be me." Dean feels a luscious tightening in his balls as he rushes toward his climax and one of Sam's hands wraps around his own.

"Stay with me, stay with me baby, of fuck…" Then Dean is begging as he comes, shouting prayers to God, and pleas for Sammy to stay with him when all others have flown. His eyes do not leave Sam's as he shoots hot seed against their hands coating their stomachs and chests, slicking Sam's cock. Dean continues to move against Sam, shivering through each convulsion of pleasure, the air between them thick with the humid musk of their lovemaking.

Dean writhes and shudders and the flood of sensation; the pulsing in Dean's cock; the wet, slick heat; the scent of Dean's come; and the unguarded craving in Dean's eyes overwhelms Sam and his expression widens with awe as the power of his orgasm, a sweet urgent warmth, rips through his body as he erupts.

Dean guides him through the aftershocks, bringing him back down to earth.

"I love you, Sammy."

"And I love you."

In a final act of communion Dean raises his hand, coated with their seed to Sam's lips and then his own. Each tastes the other's passion; the final wall separating them demolished.

Dean uses his t-shirt to wipe them both clean and then pulls the blankets around them, gathering Sam into his arms.

"Sleep, baby." Dean brushes the sweat-soaked curls from Sam's forhead as he listens to his brother's breath drop into an even, slow rhythm. Sam rests his head against Dean's chest, safe, quiet and finally at peace.


End file.
